


To Be Fools Prepared

by pyrrhical (anoyo)



Category: Merlin - Fandom
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-16
Updated: 2010-09-16
Packaged: 2018-05-18 14:23:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5931613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anoyo/pseuds/pyrrhical
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur is sleeping, soundly, one arm firmly secured around Merlin’s waist underneath a deliciously warm down-stuffed blanket when the first townsperson goes missing. In fact, he is still sleeping, a small puddle of drool soaked into his pillow, when a member of the guard frantically has the lord chamberlain wake the king, gibbering nonsensically about a “giant hog rutting through the village” and “the baker’s girl is gone missing, too, but giant hog.” The puddle has become something of a small lake when the rapping begins on Arthur’s door, and he wakes to a series of just-rising thoughts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Be Fools Prepared

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted 9/16/10 [here](http://pyrrhical.livejournal.com/179942.html).

Arthur is sleeping, soundly, one arm firmly secured around Merlin’s waist underneath a deliciously warm down-stuffed blanket when the first townsperson goes missing. In fact, he is still sleeping, a small puddle of drool soaked into his pillow, when a member of the guard frantically has the lord chamberlain wake the king, gibbering nonsensically about a “giant hog rutting through the village” and “the baker’s girl is gone missing, too, but giant hog.” The puddle has become something of a small lake when the rapping begins on Arthur’s door, and he wakes to a series of just-rising thoughts: 

First, “Ermuph?”

Second, “Ew, wet!”

Third, “What is that sound, I ought to look, wait, you hear sounds.”

Fourth, “Ah, the door.”

Fifth, “Mm, Merlin, warm.”

Sixth, “I really ought to answer the door.”

Seventh, “Well, not the door, it’s a door, but the person at the door.”

Eighth, “Shit, Merlin!”

If he and Merlin aren’t about to become the second best-kept secret they have between themselves – and isn’t that a complicated thought to have, at a time of morning that doesn’t quite have daylight yet? – Arthur needs to come up with some way to hide the disheveled, obviously naked man in his bed. Unfortunately, the previous revelation just about used up his beautiful epiphanies for before-breakfast logical reasoning, and Arthur throws the bedclothes over Merlin’s head, hoping that whoever is at the door simply believes princes have incredible pillow counts, never mind the breathing motion they seem to be managing.

Once he struggles into his trousers, Arthur allows himself to answer the door, pulling his shirt over his head as he does so, trying and utterly failing to look regal as he dresses himself. Fortunately for his dignity, or lack thereof, the lord chamberlain is old, grizzled, and made of propriety itself.

“Sire,” the lord chamberlain says, bowing to precisely the right height, “I have been sent by your father, the king, to inform you that there is a magical beast afoot in the lower town, and that there is some sorcery likely connected to it that is spiriting off our citizens.”

“Well,” Arthur manages before he gets stuck, again failing in the early hour, “that just won’t do. Er.” He clears his throat in what he feels is an entirely unsubtle attempt to also clear his thoughts. “Have we sent any guards to attempt to deal with it?”

“I believe,” the lord chamberlain replies, “that the night watch captain explained that their weapons were ineffective.” The lord chamberlain does not add that he is uncertain due to the stuttering and shrill nature of the captain’s explanation, because it is unnecessary information. Also, it makes the captain look bad, and the lord chamberlain is embarrassed for him.

“Well,” Arthur manages again, cursing silently at his apparent impression of a meathead, “please tell my father that I will meet him in the hall in twenty minutes. Please also wake my knights, and tell them to prepare for battle.”

“Very well, sire,” the lord chamberlain says, inclining his head respectfully. “Shall I have your servant sent to attend you?”

“Er,” Arthur says, swallowing an inappropriate hysterical giggle that he chalks up to lack of sleep with a vow to not learn the actual hour, “that will be unnecessary. My, ah, mail was sent for cleaning, so I will be heading that way to get a replacement set in any regard, and I am already dressed. But thank you.”

“Very well, sire,” the lord chamberlain says again, bowing respectfully before turning on his heel and marching down the corridor, almost certainly to go and do precisely what Arthur has told him to, because that is what servants do. At least, that’s what servants who actually respect their jobs do, unlike the servants who like to hide under bedclothes, badly concealing laughter.

Closing his door, Arthur says, “That was horrific. I’m positive the lord chamberlain now thinks I’ve been hit in the head a few too many times.”

“Yes, well, you have,” Merlin replies, still laughing as he peels back the bedclothes. “That, and your stunning display of whatever that was, are not mutually exclusive. In fact, I’m amazed people haven’t been unanimously of that opinion for years.” Merlin slides out of bed all angles and bumps and morning good humor despite it really still being the middle of the night.

“It’s because of my stunning good looks and charm, obviously,” Arthur says, chucking Merlin’s trousers to him from across the room as he collects for himself clothing that will be more comfortable underneath his mail and armor and strips down once more. “Excepting when you’re around doing utterly inappropriate things and when it’s who-even-knows-o’clock in the dead of night, I am a brilliant, charming prince, just ask anyone,” Arthur finishes, hopping stupidly as he fails to smoothly chuck the trousers he quickly pulled on to answer the door.

Merlin snorts. “Of course,” he says, finding his shirt and pulling it on before cinching his belt. “You keep right on with those delusions.”

Arthur grins, allowing the banter to ease him into the day, despite the lack of sleep. He pulls clothing out of his closet and deposits it on the side of the bed before starting to pull on the clean pair of breeches. “You know you find me utterly charming and brilliant,” he says, smirking over to where Merlin is laying out the accoutrements of Arthur’s battle attire.

“Ah, yes, but the entire castle knows I’m deluded, so that’s not really a point in your favor,” Merlin says, grinning back. “And I don’t know if you should really lay claim to ‘brilliant,’ Arthur. That might be a bit much. Charming and pretty, I’ll give you, but brilliant is just fawning on yourself.”

Dressed, Arthur slips on his boots and starts lacing them with a snort of laughter, “God, I sound like a concubine. Are you saying I should resign myself for political marriage and child-bearing, then?”

Merlin nearly chokes on his laughter, walking across the room to where Arthur keeps a basin of water to wash his face in the morning. “You would make a terrible, horrible wife, Arthur. I’m really sorry, but you just cannot cook. I suppose if all your husband ever wanted to eat was jerky, you’d be fine, but – well, man cannot live on jerky alone.” He drops a rag into the basin and wrings it out, then lays it over the edge, laughing as he does so.

“Nonsense,” Arthur replies sternly. “Men love jerky. I would make a jerky-loving man a very good wife.” He grins and walks up to Merlin, pulling him around from the basin so that they are standing face to face. “And I have been told, in no uncertain terms, that I am absolutely wonderful in bed. I would be a great wife.”

Settling his hands on Arthur’s hips and tugging them closer, Merlin replies, “Actually, I think that would take you right off the lists, what with having lost your virtue.” His fingers flex on Arthur hips again and he looks down, running his hands up Arthur’s waist. “And Arthur, I really just hate to tell you, but you don’t have the figure for child-bearing.”

Arthur snorts, but manages, “Drat,” half-seriously before kissing Merlin lightly on the mouth. “Now, mail. And then I think there’s something in the lower town that needs taking care of.”

“Very true,” Merlin agrees. It only takes him a few minutes of smoothly fitting Arthur’s mail to his body before he continues, “You know, time was we would have been up and out in a panic, with a magical beast in the lower town. I think we’re getting complacent.”

“Hm,” Arthur says, tightening his jaw in thought in a way that manages to push out his lower lip as if in a pout. “Perhaps we’ve started to become accustomed? There are only so many times you can save the kingdom from animals stepped up from their usual size before becoming excited is just exhausting.”

“Maybe,” Merlin agrees. He lets out another huff of air. “I feel like my point is more, though. As in, Arthur, isn’t it strange that there have been so many magical beasts that we’ve been able to become accustomed? I wonder if the other kingdoms are this plagued by magic gone haywire, or if it’s just ours.”

“And if it’s just ours, if it’s because we’ve been stifling the magic for so long that it’s naturally responding to the lack of magic in the only way that it knows how?” Arthur finishes, a questioning note at the end of his statement as he turns his head to meet Merlin’s eyes.

“Yes, exactly,” Merlin says, smiling. “The way that the magic has felt wrong for a while now. I can’t help but wonder if this is a symptom.”

“Or a result,” Arthur counters.

“Either way,” Merlin said, tightening the last lace, “it’s probably worth paying attention to.”

Arthur smirks. “Probably.”

Merlin lightly slaps the back of his head as they make for the hall, and when they arrive together, the lord chamberlain makes no remark and Arthur only flushes a little.

Fortunately for Arthur’s once-and-future-mortification, they are very quickly distracted by the matter at hand, which has become a much bigger matter in the time that has passed since the night watch captain first stumbled in horror into the lord chamberlain’s presence.

“Three more people have gone missing,” Uther says without preamble, pacing back and forth across the hall that he uses most frequently as war chambers in a manner that Arthur mimics unconsciously when he needs to make his most pressing decisions. Merlin once called it the “Pendragon pondering putter,” and Arthur had glared, but he is reminded of those three words now, watching his father pace. 

“It is more serious than that,” another voice says, and Arthur turns to see that Gaius is also with them in the hall. “Three more beasts have appeared in the lower town, and they are savaging it uncontrollably.”

“Specifically,” Uther continues, as though scripted, and Arthur is struck for the thousandth time by how seamlessly his father and the physician can work together, “they are attacking the areas around which the people were taken, with each beast attacking in the order in which the people were taken. Each beast is as invincible as the last.”

Arthur hears a sharp gasp behind him and all eyes in the hall come to rest on Merlin. Shockingly, it is Uther who speaks first.

“Yes, I believe your servant has come to the same conclusion that we have. Gaius and I believe that the beasts may be the missing villagers themselves,” Uther says, his voice heavy.

“Psychologically, it makes sense,” Gaius says, his voice automatically switching from ominous and foreboding to professorial. “Once turned into beasts, they stay near the areas that they know. We do not know what is driving them to kill, or if they are simply doing so out of confusion or fear. It is, at present, too dangerous to try to communicate or reason with them, regardless of who or what they are.”

“What can we do?” Arthur asks, before Merlin can, sensing it on his tongue and not wanting to hear his father snap for the hundredth time at his impertinent servant. “Do you know anything of a curse or spell like this?”

“I do not,” Gaius says, but his eyes flicker briefly toward Merlin, and Arthur understands what Gaius expects them to do once safely out of sight. “I will be delving into every text that I possess for a natural remedy, but I am afraid that I do not have any texts on spells or the magical arts.”

“Arthur,” Uther says, and Arthur snaps his attention back to his father, “you will take your men to search for the sorcerer who is perpetrating this madness, and you will kill him or bring him to me for justice.”

“Of course,” Arthur says, not commenting on the near impossibility of this request. Uther doesn’t know that Arthur has Merlin on his side; he doesn’t know that Arthur is able to complete all of these impossible tasks not because he is amazing and a Pendragon – whatever that means, since Uther can’t complete the tasks he gives Arthur, which is why he gives them to Arthur in the first place – but because he has the help that Uther is unwilling or unable to receive. Sometimes, when Arthur’s feeling particularly maudlin – which is never, of course – he thinks that that help isn’t even the magic, it’s simply the friendship. Sorcerer or no, Merlin is Merlin, and it’s because they’re them that they do what they do.

“You are dismissed,” Uther says, waving Arthur out of the hall. Arthur obediently goes, heading immediately to the waiting chamber where he knows his knights will be preparing, as he told the lord chamberlain to have them do.

“What are we going to do?” Merlin asks immediately, under his breath, once they are out of earshot.

“Find out how someone might do that, reverse it, and kill whoever did it. Obviously,” Arthur says, grinning cheekily. His grin slips not at all when Merlin growls something uncomplimentary about Pendragons and expectations.

“All right, so while I go do all the hard work, what are you going to be doing?” Merlin asks, still keeping pace with Arthur on the way to the knights’ war chamber.

Now Arthur’s grin brittles. “Attempting to bumble onto those answers by chance, because people are dying, and we have no time.”

Merlin is too used to Arthur to squawk like he used to, or to yell, or to even do anything more significant than roll his eyes and grab Arthur’s arm, more strength in his arm than one might guess, just by looking, in order to stop a full knight in his mail. “Just be bloody careful, Arthur,” Merlin says, looking straight in Arthur’s eyes, his own dead serious and his grip felt tight through Arthur’s chainmail.

Arthur leans in to kiss him once, chastely, before he says, “You’ll work it out, and then you’ll find me, and we’ll take care of it. We have a reputation to maintain, after all.”

That makes Merlin smirk, and he replies, “Our secret, spoken-in-dark-magical-corners reputation? The one about the golden prince? That one?”

“Right,” Arthur says, “that one.” He sees the way the skin around Merlin’s eyes tightens, and he knows that it means that Merlin isn’t saying something, because there are so few times that Merlin doesn’t talk that Arthur has them all written in stone in his mind by now, and this is one, but he doesn’t ask. He never asks. Sometimes, he thinks that’s what their – well – whatever – means. Like everything with Merlin, he’s sure he’ll know eventually, and he’s sure there’s a reason; struggling with it now is just asking for a worry he doesn’t need.

“All right,” Merlin says. He presses a palm to Arthur forehead and Arthur feels a spot of warmth briefly before the magic fades and Merlin’s hand is gone. “There. I’ll be able to find you now, provided you don’t participate in any magical cleansing rituals done by someone more powerful than me. By which I mean, stay away from gods and forest spirits, for the love of all that’s holy, Arthur, I mean it this time.”

Arthur smirks and Merlin glares and this is familiar, so Arthur’s pretty sure the world is still turning. “I’ll try,” he says, and promptly turns and walks away, before they can stay and keep bantering, like this, for all of time. Because they can’t, not when people are dying, no matter how comfortable it is, or how commonplace invincible farm animals have become.

His knights are waiting for him, as ready to go as always, and after one of his patented invigorating speeches, they’re all roaring and ready to save the day, despite the fact that they have no idea what they’re fighting or where it is. Arthur’s pretty sure that his ability to instill that sort of loyalty and truth in people should be akin to sorcery itself, but he’s not going to say no to it at this point.

They gallop out of the city and Gawain asks him, “Are you sure that we’re searching for a sorcerer?”

The question stops Arthur pretty cold, and so he asks, “Why do you ask?” over the thunder of their horses’ hooves, easily keeping his mount paced with Gawain’s.

“It’s just, sire, where I’m from, we have this legend. We have a different religion than you do, in Camelot, and in our religion, we have a god that can do this sort of thing, turn people into beasts based on sins that they’ve committed.” Gawain shrugs. “In the legend, the god does this both to punish the people for their sins, and for fun.”

“Fun?” Arthur asks incredulously.

“Well, sire, he’s a trickster god. Or she, I suppose; there were two, in the legend,” Gawain yells.

Arthur is both amazed and horrified. “Do you know what we’d be looking for, if it was the creature – er, god – from your legend?”

“Ah, a stag with a human head, if that’s what it is,” Gawain says, “either male or female in the head bit.”

Privately of the opinion that that is one of the most screwed-up gods he’s ever heard of, Arthur replies, “So we might want to look in a forest?”

“If we have a really deep, really unexplored forest, that would be the best bet,” Gawain says, seeming more and more confident as they continue.

It’s the best lead they have, and Arthur is more than willing to head off into the woods chasing what might actually pay off. “Then I think we might want to be heading due north, mightn’t we?” That said, Arthur is also a little horrified that they will run into the right beast; right now, he has no way to defeat it.

“Sounds like a good bet,” Gawain agrees, thinking of the same forest as Arthur.

“Your legend wouldn’t happen to say anything about defeating this god, now would it?” Arthur asks, grinning at his knight.

Gawain gives him a lopsided grin back. “If it did, I wasn’t paying close enough attention. I’m regretting that bit now; I’ll be sure to let my sister tell me she told me so, if I ride home from this one.”

“Ah, sisters,” Arthur agrees, grinning and really hoping that he hadn’t gotten lucky only to get very, very unlucky.

They reach the outer stretches of the Forest of Dean, south of the inland sea, long after the sun rises and certain of Arthur’s knights begin to grow wary of the approach to Mercia’s border. Arthur calms them with a few words as they enter the forest, but he’s just as nervous as they are, to be honest, and in no better temper to be entering the undisputed borderlands. 

Arthur has stopped his knights for lunch when the forest noise around them abruptly stops, as though someone has clapped thick wads of cotton over his ears. From the expressions on his knights’ faces, they are experiencing the same sensation, and Arthur is anything but happy about it.

With the lack of sound, they are all tense; they can all feel that something is coming. It’s almost a relief when everything around Arthur blacks out, like a painless, waking blow to the head, and, seconds later, he finds himself in an unending field on a summer’s day. The weather is beautiful and Arthur – Arthur is waiting. More than waiting, Arthur is not in control of himself; he is a spectator in his own body, riding along on a perfect summer’s day in the middle of a field that he’s never seen before.

He knows that he was just in the forest – the Forest of Dean, a forest with so many legends, mysteries, and rumors that Arthur isn’t going to even speculate if this is their creature or some nameless other from the forest itself – but riding along in someone else’s emotions, even if they’re his-own-someone-else, Arthur is hard-pressed to care. Suddenly, he hears something through the warm, summer-and-grass-smelling wind, and he turns see a woman in a white, flowing dress walking toward him through the field.

“Arthur Pendragon,” the woman says in a voice that sounds like that wind, but also deeper, like the forest he just left, and Arthur finds himself in control of his body, like an ill-fitting jacket that had suddenly slipped into place.

“I am,” he says, because that’s all he can think to say.

“There is something that does not belong in my forest,” the woman says. “You are here to remove it, and so I am your ally, for today. When next you enter my forest, do not make this same assumption.”

Stupidly, the first thing that Arthur asks is, “Am I your enemy, then?”

“You are a mortal man,” the woman says. “You see things in such black and white terms. Because you are not my ally does not mean you are my enemy. Simply do not assume that you shall have my assistance; it is not such a thing as I can give freely.”

“Unless you are getting something in return,” Arthur says, understanding.

“That is the balance of nature,” the woman says, inclining her head. “And I must maintain that balance.”

“Are you to help us in our battle, then?” Arthur asks, wondering if the woman is a sorceress, or if Merlin babbling about forest spirits hadn’t been quite so idiotic, after all. He’d only met the one, after all, and she’d been in the flesh and tried to stab him; what were the chances he was meeting another one?

“No, that is not my duty. I am to help with the keeping of your secrets, Arthur Pendragon. I shall enchant your knights so that your Merlin may come and go unhindered, and I shall tell you two things,” the woman says. Arthur is more and more convinced that she probably is the Forest of Dean’s spirit, what with being ethereal and powerful and more than just a little exasperating. “That is the balance for your assistance.”

Arthur pauses. “Mine, yes, but what’s the balance for Merlin’s assistance?”

The woman’s answer only comes after a pause. “Your Merlin does not require balance,” she says cryptically, and Arthur files her under forest spirits for good, and also under “Bloody Irritating Women,” a category he created for Morgana when they were children, and which is now inhabited by a handful of women, all of whom have turned out to be fairly magically powerful. Arthur is sure that his life is somehow unfair, in that regard.

“All right,” Arthur agrees, because it’s easier, “let’s get on with your two things, so I can go get rid of this creature-god-thing.”

The woman raises an eyebrow, which Arthur calls a triumph, but concedes. “First, you will have to travel from here to obtain that which you need to complete your objective, but your Merlin has already discovered that, and is more than adequate for informing you of the rest of your plan. What I must tell you is that your plan will fail if you and your Merlin do not truly know one another when you face Calligney.”

“Calligney?” Arthur asks, ignoring the jab that he doesn’t know his best-friend-slash-lover-slash-servant-slash-lord-knows-what-else, because, well, Arthur has never been good with denial, not really.

“The Trickster. Her magic only works on people who cannot be recognized. If a person can be seen for all of what they are, then they cannot be changed, and her magic is useless. She will not be defenseless, but she will be severely crippled,” the woman says. 

“So I have to know absolutely everything about Merlin, and him about me. Brilliant. Should I start with what I had for lunch?” The woman doesn’t seem to appreciate the joke.

“Trivial things do not matter,” she says, and Arthur winces. “Merlin already knows everything about you that is to be known, even that which you do not know about yourself. It is that part of Merlin that you do not know, which could destroy you both, in facing a god.”

It scares Arthur a little, that this woman can tell Arthur that Merlin knows things about Arthur that Arthur doesn’t even know, and Arthur doesn’t care. What that means, Arthur really doesn’t have time to ponder. “Beautiful,” Arthur says, drily.

“That is the first thing,” the woman says. “The second is this: I cannot tell you all that there is to know about your Merlin that you do not know, because I am not privy to that information. I can only tell you that the man that you call Merlin, we call Emrys, and that you need to know this if you want your plan to be successful.” The woman watches Arthur for a moment, then says, “Everything else is up to you, golden prince.”

Arthur blinks for a moment, and then a few things click. “Can I ask you a question, or will I then owe you something?”

The woman smiles a little, and Arthur thinks he might have amused her. “That depends on the question.”

“No one lets me hear the prophecies that call me the golden prince, and, really, I’m okay with that, since I’d much rather run around with a sword and hack at things, as Morgana says, than listen to a bunch of words telling me how I’m going to be running around with a sword hacking at things. But in those prophecies, where I’m the golden prince, is that where Merlin is Emrys?” Arthur asks, crossing his arms.

“Yes,” the woman says, then smiles, “and no. In those prophecies, your Merlin is spoken of as both Merlin and Emrys, because the names speak of the same man, but of different roles that he is meant to play.” The woman looks off to her right for a few moments, the first time she has looked away from Arthur, before she turns back to him and says, “Someday, you may owe a price for this, golden prince, but I believe that someday, I will owe you a greater one, and so I will tell you now for free. In all the prophecies that speak of you, your Merlin is both Merlin and Emrys. In prophecies for which you are not a subject, there is no Merlin, only Emrys.”

Arthur gives that a few moments before he replies. “I don’t know what that means, but I feel like I’m going to find out, and that I may not like the answer,” he says.

“But you will hear it,” the woman says, and it is not a question.

Because it’s not. “Should we get on with it?” Arthur asks.

“I believe we should,” the woman says, and Arthur hears a surprising amount of good humor in her voice. He is struck for a moment with the thought that, perhaps, this entire thing has been a transaction for which she has needed to be utterly professional, but now, leaving this false clearing, she can leave that role and he can get a glimpse of a forest spirit on her off hours. Then he remembers that he’s sleep-deprived, and vows to remedy that as soon as he possibly can.

When Arthur returns to consciousness – real consciousness, not the kind where he’s being animated by trees – his knights are lying gracefully on the ground around him and he’s standing in a beam of sunlight. He has a feeling that the forest spirit might have a thing for aesthetics. Then he hears a crackle and some breaking branches and he doesn’t have time to consider the forest spirit before Merlin wanders into their camp, giving a low whistle at the clearing of unconscious knights.

“Convenient,” Merlin says, grinning. Then smirks, and says, “Also, do you remember when I specifically said no forest spirits or gods? You went and found both. I am never letting you out of the castle without me again.”

“Yes, try explaining that one to my father,” Arthur retorts. “Oh, I’m sorry, Arthur can’t go do that, I have to pull out my books on sorcery, do a bit of research, figure out how to save the day, and then we can go off and bash in some skulls. Ta!” At the end, Arthur does an obnoxious falsetto and finger wiggle, which earns him an impolite hand gesture.

Merlin clears his throat. “Either way, I’m sure you’ve got some idea what we’re up against, what with being in the right place and all,” he says, gesturing around the forest.

“Gawain has apparently heard legends. How he’s done that in and amongst all the behind-tapestry snogging, I’ll never know, but there it is,” Arthur says, shrugging. “So here we are, in the deepest forest close to Camelot.”

“Well, he was spot on this time. Did his legend involve the mermaid tears?” Merlin asks, twisting to rummage in the pack he’s got slung over his shoulder for something.

Arthur chokes. “The what?” he asks.

Merlin pulls something out of his pack and waves it, snickering. “Apparently not.” Arthur finally figures out what Merlin is waving after a few moments and is dumbstruck. “I found the legend in a book on pagan gods, strangely, after I traced the magic that changed the first missing person. I had to corner her first, which was a screaming pain – literally, she got me in the side, you can get irritated later – and then all signs pointed to really obscure simulacra magic that uses the victim’s innate psychology, which, well, I see you glazing over, so we’ll just say I found it, shall we?”

“Yes, please,” Arthur says, blinking a few times to regain his ability to care.

Sticking out his tongue shortly, Merlin continues, “After that, it was cake. The Trickster can only be distracted from its intended victims by being blindfolded with a silk kerchief soaked in mermaid’s tears. At that point it becomes mortal and can be slain; or it was mortal all along, but really dangerous. The text was fuzzy on that. Either way, apparently it’s been done many times, since the Trickster is a god and just regenerates after we kill it.”

Arthur roars. “What! We’re going to kill it for nothing? That’s idiotic! You couldn’t find a more permanent solution?”

“Well, no, but the Trickster never bothers the same place within the same generation. Once you’ve killed it, it respects its killers until they’ve died. You know, like, hello, you murdered me once, obviously I should avoid you, that sort of thing,” Merlin says, shoving the kerchief back in his bag.

“All right, fine, respect, I’ll take it,” Arthur grumbles. “Next issue: mermaid tears.”

Merlin snickers. “Yes?”

Arthur crosses his arms again. “You’re telling me that in order to defeat this thing, I have to go find another mythical, magical creature that shouldn’t exist and make it cry?”

“That sounds be about right, yeah,” Merlin says, still snickering.

“And how do you suppose we go about doing this, then, Merlin? Do you know where to find a mermaid? Or how to make it cry?” Arthur asks.

“Finding it’s going to be the tricky part,” Merlin says. “As for making it cry, I suppose we could just leave it with you for a few minutes. If mermaids have anything in common with regular maids, that is.”

“Oh, right, and then you can rush in and soak up its tears in all your silk skirts, what with being such a girl and all,” Arthur counters, scowling. Last he checked, the consensus was on charming and pretty.

Merlin grins. “That’s what the kerchief is for, keep up,” he says. “I’ve actually got a location for the mermaids, too, but they don’t just sit around on the rocks sunning themselves. We have to do something to get one to come to the surface, once we get there.”

“You have a location for mermaids,” Arthur repeats, just to be sure.

“Yes,” Merlin replies, drawing a sigil on the ground at the center of the clearing. “Unfortunately, you’re going to need to take off your armor. If you fall in the water, you’re going to sink, and I’ve had enough of pulling you out of water with full plate on, thanks.”

Arthur rolls his eyes, but starts unlacing things as best he can while Merlin draws. When Merlin appears to be done, he helps Arthur with the rest, and then places a shield around the little camp of knights and armor. “All right, we should be good to head out,” he says, then pulls Arthur over to the sigil.

“You know I hate this,” Arthur says blandly, wrapping his arms around Merlin’s waist and sighing. “It feels like getting squeezed into and out of too-tight clothing.

“If we walk, we’ll be there next month,” Merlin says smoothly, putting one hand in the small of Arthur’s back, and using the other to make a sharp gesture that makes the drawn sigils glow before, suddenly – but not before being squeezed uncomfortably – they are somewhere else.

“Somewhere else,” in this case, is on a fairly small rock in the middle of what looks like the ocean. They do not have a boat, and Merlin is nodding in satisfaction.

“Perfect,” Merlin says, grinning.

“Merlin,” Arthur says, “we’re on a rock. In the sea. When you said walking would take a month, I think you meant swimming.”

“It would still take a month,” Merlin answers, “just with the addition of being impossible.”

“Right,” Arthur says, looking around. “Where are we, now?”

“Mermaid-infested waters, I should think. Sailors and fishermen have sworn this path off for ages due to it, so not only am I certain there are mermaids, but there are cranky and risky mermaids.” Merlin grins. “I’m brilliant.”

Arthur goes somewhat cross-eyed. “Wait. Aren’t mermaids just pretty fish-people? Why would this area be sworn off?”

“Arthur, that’s just a myth,” Merlin says, rolling his eyes and apparently not catching the soul-sucking irony. “Mermaids are terrible nymphs that seduce people and then eat them. Though they are fish-people and fairly pretty, so I suppose that part’s true.”

Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose. “This is quite possibly the worst idea we’ve ever had. Why are we on a rock in the middle of the ocean, then? Are we going to try and get seduced? I’m not too keen on getting eaten,” Arthur says, raising his eyebrows.

“Actually,” Merlin says, and now he’s smirking, which has Arthur worried, “I have another plan in mind, based on a few things that I’ve read.”

“God help us,” Arthur says, crossing himself. 

Merlin swats him, but continues, “Mermaids like to seduce, but they’re also naturally jealous. So I figured we could just use our natural talents on this one.”

Arthur has a very bad feeling. “Why do I feel like you don’t mean swordplay and magic,” he says, less a question than a statement of dread.

“Because I don’t,” Merlin proclaims cheerfully. “Mermaids are naturally jealous of lovers, so we’re just going to make out. Which we are, in fact, very good at.” He smirks.

After what is, in fact, a very credible fish impression of his own, and a small bout of gaping, Arthur manages, “We’re putting on a sex show for homicidal fish?”

Merlin’s “Yes” is not a particularly convincing answer, but Arthur is having a hard time arguing with it, not because of Merlin’s fabulous and beyond compare placating skills – also pretty good – but more because Merlin chose to simultaneously climb into his lap. Which, really, Arthur is never very good at arguing with, even when he knows he has to get up for drills in three hours.

He’s managed to get his hand up the back of Merlin’s shirt, and Merlin’s gotten Arthur’s shirt off completely, by the time he sees a ripple in the water next to their rock. Arthur is only half paying attention to what they’re actually doing on this rock, with the other half gone on to the more pleasurable realm of, “This off-to-kill-the-magical-creature quest has turned out to have sex in it, and I am okay with that.” He is especially gone when Merlin starts rocking their hips together and pushing Arthur onto his back, which usually means Good Things for Arthur.

All of this means that Arthur is woefully unprepared for Merlin to suddenly stop and cast some sort of spell into the water, which results in a lot of splashing and shrill, inhuman shrieking. When Arthur comes back to his sensibilities – still hard, but, well, he’s done more complicated things while hard, and if he’s lucky, maybe Merlin will take pity on him – Merlin is grinning at the very put-out-looking mermaid.

“Ah, there you are,” Merlin says, turning his grin on Arthur, who apparently had been very obviously dazed.

“Yes, thanks,” Arthur says, craning his head to look at the mermaid, which is exceptionally difficult, what with Merlin still laying all over the top of him. “Are we making progress, or am I very cranky for no reason? Because I’d like the cranky to go somewhere.”

Merlin snickers. Arthur learned long ago that he apparently has a constitution of steel, and that having a hard-on will not distract Merlin from anything, from minor things like chores to big things like, well, battling evil sorcerers. This is a convenient ability that Arthur hopes to learn through osmosis one day; all the prolonged contact has to come in handy for something, other than the obvious. “The mermaid’s name is Aesa, and she thinks that we are very hot, which is very not fair, since she can neither join us nor eat us.”

“At least she has good taste,” Arthur says, resigning himself to sitting – laying? – this one out.

“Very true,” Merlin agrees. “Aesa,” he continues, “while Arthur and I are not willing to allow you to eat us, or to join us, we would very much be grateful if you could help us out.”

“Why would I do that?” the mermaid – Aesa, Arthur has to remind himself, even though giving names to creatures still feels strange – asks in a strangely gravelly voice.

Arthur decides to input his bargaining skills as a mix with his hopes. “Well, we could always finish the show. You know, as a trade.”

Aesa pauses. Apparently she really does think they are hot, which Arthur finds extremely strange, but is in total agreement with. “I would prefer to eat you,” she says, finally.

“Unfortunately out of the bargain,” Merlin says sagely, shaking his head.

Sighing, Aesa says, “If you are sure, I suppose that is fair. We have not had human visitors in such a long time, I will have something to brag about. What is it that you need?”

Merlin pulls out the kerchief – from where, Arthur has no idea – and says, “We need this kerchief to be soaked with a mermaid’s tears. For some sorcery, to be precise. I’ll explain it, if you want me to, but it’s very important to the safety of our kingdom.”

Aesa nods. “That is acceptable.” She swims toward the rock. “If you place it on the rock, I can lay my head upon it easily.” Merlin does as she asks, and the mermaid’s tears are much easier to collect than Arthur would have anticipated.

Once Aesa has finished her portion of the bargain, and Merlin is putting the kerchief back away, somewhere – Arthur is again not questioning where – Arthur notices that Aesa is watching them less in anticipation than curiosity. That, in turn, piques Arthur’s own curiosity. “If I could ask,” Arthur says, making it clear that he’s addressing Aesa, not Merlin, “what about this deal is making you watch us so curiously? I don’t think it’s that we’re the first humans you’ve seen in a while; it looks more like there’s something else to your curiosity than that.”

“You are very wise,” Aesa says, and Arthur grins despite the snort he more feels than hears from Merlin. “For you to need my tears, you must be doing something very specific, and I am curious about the nature of your need. You said that you needed them for very important sorcery, but you did not tell the nature of that sorcery.”

“There is a being threatening the people of our kingdom, and your tears are instrumental in stopping him,” Merlin answers in what Arthur thinks is the vaguest fashion possible.

Aesa, on the other hand, appears to have had all her questions answered, as she begins to flick her tail more rapidly in the water at Merlin’s words. “Then you are facing something that deals in the revelation of pure truth, are you not? Only a being of revelation would be hindered by a mermaid’s tears,” Aesa says, her voice more rumbling and whistling than it had been.

“Yes,” Merlin says, “that is the matter at hand. We need the obfuscating properties of the mermaid’s tears to counteract the revelatory ability of the being that we are going to fight.”

“Very good,” Aesa hisses in her grumbling voice, and Arthur is taken by the way it sounds exactly like a voice one might hear on the waves themselves. “I know the legend of which you speak. I wonder if you will be able to get near enough to use your tool, however.” She grins, and her tail flicks back and forth in the water, spinning waves.

Merlin’s eyes narrow, and Arthur can tell that he wants to ask, but instead he says, “Our agreement?”

“Today I have another story to tell my people,” Aesa says, very grumbling voice rattling with humor. “I will save your debt for when this story is no longer my currency, and contact you then.”

“Then we’ll expect your contact,” Merlin says politely, inclining his head.

Aesa replies the favor, then disappears beneath the surface in a quick motion. Arthur takes a moment to consider the conversation that just happened – Aesa’s reference to what the forest spirit had already told him, more likely than not – before something else occurs to him.

“Merlin,” he says, drawing out the syllables to fully catch Merlin’s attention, “does this mean that, at any point in the future, we’re going to have to put on a sex show for fish?”

Merlin snickers. “I think so,” he says, pulling a piece of charcoal from that impossible place. “Though, if it’s any consolation, I doubt Aesa will share the prize.”

“Oh, yes, that’s brilliant, thanks,” Arthur agrees, rolling his eyes as Merlin scribbles their return sigils. He isn’t given any warning before they’re back in the Forest of Dean, precisely at the point from which they left, landing uncomfortably on his back in the leaves and forest refuse. 

“I suppose that means we’re ready,” Merlin says, pulling the kerchief back out and checking it.

Arthur takes a minute to pause – collect himself, if he’ll admit that – before he says, “Actually, the forest spirit warned me about something else, in line with the obnoxiously vague warning the mermaid gave.”

“Oh?” Merlin asks, looking at Arthur comfortably.

“She explained that the creature – a Trickster god named Calligney, she said – transformed people into beasts based on intrinsic characteristics inherent in all people, and that you and I are as susceptible to that as anyone else,” Arthur says, paraphrasing as best he can, together with the information that Gaius had given them at the start. Together, it made a chilling amount of sense; which, really, was starting to be magic in general. “She went on to explain that the magic could be countered by a complete knowledge of the other person. That, in a way, they could only maintain the animal form if they couldn’t be wholly recognized in all their human capacity. Something like that, anyway.”

“That makes sense, on a natural give-and-take level,” Merlin says, nodding.

“Anyway,” Arthur continues, “she was really emphatic about the complete knowledge bit. She went on for a while, actually, before she just told me that while you know everything about me, including things I don’t know about myself – which is mean, but I feel like I probably don’t want to know them anyway, so we’ll let that go – you’re keeping secrets about you that are probably going to get us both killed. Since, in this instance, us failing was destructive for the forest, she felt like she should tell us this so that we could work it out beforehand.” Arthur shifts on his feet after saying this, only slightly, but enough so that he knows that he’s let it slip that he isn’t precisely happy that they have to have this conversation – a conversation that he’s been pointedly ignoring.

Merlin is silent for a while before he says, “Ah,” and then regains his silence. Arthur has almost given in to more nervous foot shifting, of which his father would be rightly ashamed, when Merlin asks, “Did she mention anything specific? I’m assuming we don’t need to know absolutely everything, or we’re going to be here for the next week.”

“She did,” Arthur says, “and that’s actually what I said, though it was more along the lines of reciting breakfasts over the past lifetime. I think she wanted to hit me.” Merlin chuckles, but gives Arthur a look suggesting that he really ought to continue unless he wants the awkwardness to reach new epic heights. “She said to ask you why you have two names, and that that would lead to it,” Arthur says plainly.

“I’d figured that was probably it,” Merlin says, giving an off-center smile. “I mean, it’s really the only large secret I’ve got left, so my series of uncomfortable conversations over as short a period of time as possible says that it obviously had to happen soon. But really,” Merlin rambles, “how many awkward conversations can one person be expected to have? I think I pulled a rotten number, somewhere along the way.”

“Well,” Arthur banters back, this part of the conversation being familiar enough – the bit where being as obnoxious as possible is grounding, centering, and they’re probably going to need that, “probably about as many awkward conversations as one person can be expected to be on the receiving end of, I’d imagine. Unsuspecting bystander, I am, here to hear your dastardly truths.” He smiles and crosses his arms, letting himself give the impression of “do your worst,” while, honestly, he’s almost afraid of what might be more difficult to say than “I can do magic” and “I’m a bit in love with you.”

“This truth is less mine than magic’s, I think,” Merlin says, and he’s adopted what Arthur calls his Gaius impersonation, which is a passable professorial tone. “Apparently I’ve been in prophecy as long as you’ve done, which I thought was a bad joke, the first time I heard it, and the name that the prophecies have for me – which is actually the name that I possess in the Old Religion, but that’s absurdly complicated, and I really hope not relevant – is Emrys.” Merlin clears his throat, and Arthur waits patiently. “I don’t know how up on your Welsh you are, but Emrys is Welsh for ‘immortal,’ which in prophecy means two things. First, that I will carry all the knowledge, so, there’s the knowing a lot of things bit. But that ties into the second bit, which is the literal, that I’m essentially immortal. We’re not sure how immortal, exactly, since I might be able to die just like anyone else, as we’ve never tested it, but I’ve already stopped aging, so my denial’s become a bit of a massive moot point.” Merlin sighs a bit and shrugs. “If I have any secrets other than those, I don’t know about them, either.” He pauses. “Unless you weren’t aware that I have roughly the magic power of the entire continent, in which case, that too.”

Arthur swallows once, and then again, into the silence that follows, before he is able to say, “Someday, you will run out of things to say that make me want to lock you in a closet for your own safety, Merlin. Someday. I am holding onto this belief, perhaps even out of my own delusion.”

Laughing, even if it doesn’t meet his eyes as much as it ought, Merlin says, “I’m sure this will be in tandem with the kingdom running out of said closets in which to lock me.”

“Of course,” Arthur agrees, and then sighs, the light banter being rather more difficult than he’d like to keep up. “Sometimes I wonder if this destiny bit isn’t just a farce designed to keep our lives as fast-paced and stressful as possible.”

“Or, at the very least, a grand scheme made to entertain someone who’s been far too bored for far too long,” Merlin concurs, fixing his gaze into the trees. “Unfortunately, I’m sure that if we ever have the chance to find out, we’ll be in no position to enjoy that information.”

Arthur grimaces. “That’s a depressing thought. Thanks for that, Merlin, I needed to be reminded of death for the millionth time this week. And just before we go into battle against a god, no less.”

“Good to know our chances, right?” Merlin quips, obviously guessing that the conversation has gone past the “epic revelations” stage and into the “now we’re going to joyfully march toward what will be our most idiotic encounter, at least this month” venue of witty banter. It’s something that Arthur appreciates.

“Merlin,” Arthur deadpans, taking the first few steps of their journey deeper into the forest, the signal that they’re as ready as they’re going to be to fight the trickster, “our chances have been stuck on pathologically suicidal for years. There is no hope for us anymore; we need a new scale upon which to judge this—this—whatever it is that we do with our days off.” Arthur pauses in his speech, though not his stride, confident that Merlin is with him. “I’ve just discovered that we live very sad lives, Merlin, if our days off consist of roaming about on insane, vigilante quests to kill mythical, magical beasts.”

Merlin snorts. “There are so many places to start with that, Arthur. We have always lived very sad lives—“ He puts out a hand to cut off whatever argument Arthur might have been about to make, and continues, “—no, Arthur, don’t argue, your poking things with your sword was no better—and I am ashamed you’ve just now noticed. I’ve given you too much credit for perception, I think. Also, they stopped being pathologically suicidal when we managed to come back alive every single time. We have a very high standard for beating the odds, thanks.”

“Yes, that’s just what I want to be known for after I’ve died—the great and beneficent King Arthur, he was one lucky bastard, he was.” Arthur raises an eyebrow at Merlin, attempting to look long-suffering, though he’s fairly sure he just looks on the verge of laughter.

“Oh, no, of course not, Arthur,” Merlin placates, patting Arthur on the shoulder, regardless of the fact that he can’t feel it through the plate. “No one will call you beneficent.” He ducks Arthur’s half-hearted swing and laughs.

As they enter a clearing perhaps a league into the forest, Arthur notices something strange about the manner in which the forest is behaving – or rather, not behaving. Either there is no wildlife around them, or that wildlife is holding a collective breath, afraid to make a sound. The closer they get to something, the quieter it gets, and it’s gone dead silent sometime very recently. Arthur doesn’t have to say anything for Merlin to notice the change; Arthur’s demeanor says it for him, and Merlin is much more perceptive than Arthur had originally credited him with. 

Fortunately for the eerie and more-than-a-bit-creepy sensation that the silence creates, Calligney doesn’t waste any time in showing herself to them. In fact, Arthur is almost convinced that she was just standing there, waiting for them. Which, really, if you’re a god and you know that people are coming to try to kill you – which you should, seeing as the two people in question had been talking about it rather loudly in the forest you’re currently calling home, plus you’ve pissed off the forest spirit – and that can never be good – you’d think you’d at least be trying to hide, wouldn’t you?

Or you’re a god, and you’re just assuming that you’re going to win, because, hey – god! Powers! Tiny humans? Piece of cake.

Arthur stops those thoughts before they can make him giggle hysterically out loud, as that’s embarrassing 100% of the time, and he really does much better when he can be impressively intimidating. Set jaw, firm shoulders, hand braced on his sword belt – he’s got intimidating down pretty well, and giggling is not part and parcel.

Calligney cuts off Arthur’s inner monologuing with a pleasant, “Good day.” Her voice is cool, but her condescending tone is putting Arthur more firmly in his want-to-beat-this-and-go-home mood. He will admit, however, that he hadn’t been expecting her to politely greet them.

To his even greater surprise, Merlin replies, “And good day to you. I don’t suppose we could convince you to stop turning people into animals and just go home, could we?” Merlin’s tone is light, but Arthur knows him too well for that, and he knows just how annoyed Merlin is with this trickster – with her use of magic for the wrong thing. Merlin’s predictable like that.

Calligney laughs and smiles at them before she replies, “I’m afraid I can’t do that. You see, I came here for a reason, and I have an objective to reach before I go.” Her smile deepens before she waves a hand and Arthur feels something strange pass through him – almost like water trickling over his scalp, only through his body, and in an invasive, uncomfortable way. He’s more than just a little relieved when nothing happens, but that relief is completely dispelled when Calligney only nods to herself at her failure, rather than, say, any of the reactions Arthur had been expecting – they had run the gamut, but he’d really been hoping for something like stamping her feet and throwing a hissy fit, as that would have been good fun.

Merlin seems about as off-put as Arthur, but he handles it a little differently, Arthur thinks, than Arthur’s current viewpoint of, “We are going to die.” Instead, Merlin asks, “It looks like you were expecting your manipulation to fail. I have to say, I don’t usually go into magic expecting it to backfire on me.”

“Oh, but it didn’t,” Calligney says, and her smile remains in place. “Was it difficult, Emrys, discerning what had happened in your villages?”

Merlin’s eyes narrow, but he answers, “No. About average, really. As far as legends go, you’re not the most common, but you’re recorded in books that get dusted fairly regularly.”

Arthur’s not sure how he missed the “Emrys” thing before, if magical creatures have been referring to Merlin by it for ages, but he’s pretty sure either Merlin or magical creatures as a whole are damned sneaky bastards. “How complimentary,” Calligney replies, and Arthur pays attention, because he’s sure that she’s not asking for her vanity, though she’s probably pretty vain, too. “And all along the way, things just seemed to fit, didn’t they?”

“Well, that’s destiny for you, isn’t it?” Merlin asks, giving Calligney one of his “daft idiot” smiles, as Arthur calls them. Calligney seems nearly as fooled as Arthur, of late.

“Indeed,” she says. “Destiny does a lot, especially for those that it desires. But sometimes, the rest of us feel like we should step in, as well, when we want something to be different from what destiny has decided.” She crosses her arms and lets her smile linger. “And here you are, able to defeat me. Standing before a god, immune to her.”

Arthur joins the conversation here, unable to simply listen. “What we do, we do of our own power. At no point did we encounter you, nor did we seek your assistance. You can claim no credit here.”

Calligney holds out an upraised palm to Arthur at his words, with a single leaf resting upon it. “That is true. But let me ask you this, golden prince. If I had not come, would you have the skills that you now possess? The knowledge that you now possess? Think on that.”

He doesn’t have an answer, but Merlin does. “I’ve learned the value of questions like that,” Merlin says, “and they are the same as the value of ‘what if’ questions: very little, except to trouble yourself or another. If that’s all you have to say, then I believe it’s time to get on with this.”

“I have exhausted the majority of my purpose,” Calligney says, laughing. “I offer one more thing, and it is a warning. Soon, you will face a challenge greater than the best that you have ever seen, and if you hope to best it, you will need more than what you are now. I would suggest taking account of what resources you have seen and perhaps lost or passed by, and trying to gather them.”

“Suitably cryptic,” Merlin says, sighing a bit. Arthur smirks, even as he draws his sword. This conversation is done, and Camelot has spent long enough with Calligney’s games, since that’s what they appear to have been. Games intended to draw out Arthur and Merlin for this very conversation when, in all truth, a damned letter could have done the same. That will always be the difference between the magic that Arthur trusts and the magic that he does not; he is not his father, and he can see more than the black.

For all her words and her knowledge, Calligney is a decent swordswoman and a fair fight. Arthur works up a sweat and a knick or two subduing her while Merlin makes sure that his final blow is truly a final blow. When he slays the trickster god, she dissolves into silver dust, which dispels into the air, leaving behind only the single leaf that she had held out to Arthur, when he had questioned her superiority.

Merlin picks it up, despite Arthur’s disapproval, and turns it between his fingers for a few moments, the expression on his face one Arthur recognizes as deep thought.

Finally, Merlin says, “The trickster was, all along, the forest spirit. That’s what this means.” He pauses, shaking his head as if to dispel something. “I mean, no, she’s not the forest spirit, she was just appearing as the forest spirit to speak to you, earlier. That’s what tricksters do, they play games. It’s how they communicate with mortals, when they choose to. And, really, it makes sense, if you consider her goals.” He looks straight at Arthur. “It’s just more than a little horrifying.”

“Yes, I’d come to that part myself,” Arthur agrees. “What’s more, we did precisely what she wanted, like marionettes.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “And we’re going to do so all over again, after her warning, because we’d be fools not to, simply because the warning came from a less-than-desirable source.”

Merlin smiles. “It’s better to be fools prepared than victors defeated, hm?”

“Something like that,” Arthur says, huffing. He throws an arm in the general direction of their horses and knights, and, much further away, Camelot. After a few moments of companionably silent walking, however, Arthur pulls up short. “Wait.”

Looking at him expectantly, Merlin asks, “Yes?”

“Really, I’m all right with the giant, pointless mission, since we’ve managed to accomplish it in the end, but we still owe a fish a sex show.” Arthur stares, horrified, at Merlin, who stares back for a moment before bursting out laughing.

After a few minutes of not-so-controlled laughter, Merlin manages, “Yes. Yes, Arthur, we still do owe a fish a sex show.”

“Oh, I am killing that trickster again, just for spite,” Arthur says, throwing both hands over his face as he recommences walking, though at a much more trudge-like velocity, toward the still-sleeping knights.

Merlin follows, laughing silently.


End file.
